"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Then why are your hands shaking?"
He looks down at his hands, and I see the slight tremor he's been trying to hide.
"You want me," I continue, pressing my advantage. "You've wanted me since that cathedral. And now you want to play with your toy before you sell it."
"You're not a toy."
"Then what am I? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're treating me like your personal dress-up doll." I gesture to the dresses scattered on the bed. "What's next? Lingerie modeling? A full strip show so you can properly evaluate the goods?"
His breathing has changed—deeper, more controlled, like he's fighting something violent.
"The training requires—"
"The training requires you to get your rocks off watching me perform for you." I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "At least the other buyers are honest about what they want from me. You're the one pretending this is business."
"It's always been business."
"Bullshit." I pick up the burgundy dress again, holding it against my body. "You want to see me in this? Fine. But let's be brutally honest about what we're doing here. You don't get to pretend you're helping me."
I start unbuttoning my blouse right there in front of him, watching his eyes go wide.
"Camilla, what are you—"
"Giving you what you want. A show." I slide the blouse off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "Isn't this why you're really here? To see how much you can push me before I break? Isn’t that part of the process?"
"Stop."
"Why? Getting uncomfortable?" I reach for the clasp of my bra. "Too real for your professional assessment? Tell me, Renato. Dothese men like big breasts? Or are they satisfied with a normal B cup?"
His hand shoots out to grab my wrist. "I said stop."
I feel the contact all the way up my arm, but I don't let him see it affect me. "Well, there it is. Finally, a real reaction instead of that cold businessman act."
"You want a real reaction?" His grip tightens slightly. "You need to stop pushing me."
"Or what? What can you possibly do that will be worse than what these men will do to me? You should stop pretending you don't want to fuck me yourself instead of selling me to other men."
I see the exact moment his control snaps, the flash of something primal and possessive in his dark eyes.
"You think that's what I want?"
"Isn’t it? You're going crazy thinking about other men touching me. I think every time you imagine me with Al-Rashid or Kozlov, you want to put your fist through a wall." I twist my wrist in his grip, not to escape but to emphasize the contact. "I think this whole training charade is just an excuse to get your hands on me before you have to give me away."
"You're wrong."
"Prove it. Let go of my wrist and walk away." I lean closer. "Leave me alone with these dresses and your professional fucking assessment."
He stares at me for a long moment, his grip still firm on my wrist, his breathing still too controlled. Then, slowly, he releases me. But he doesn't step back.
"Put your shirt back on," he says quietly.
"Why? Afraid you might see something you like? Something that makes this personal instead of professional?"
"Because if you don't, I'm going to do something we'll both regret."
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard. For a moment, the anger burning in my chest shifts to something else. Something that feels dangerously like victory.
